


tumblr drabbles 2019

by toromeo (ald0us)



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Multi, Other, ch1: barebacking, ch2: bloodplay, ch3: dom!clary sub!jonathan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 04:58:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18613627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ald0us/pseuds/toromeo
Summary: Collection of cross-posted ask prompts from tumblr. Chapters are named for the pairing and prompt.





	1. Sebastian/Jonathan, barebacking

**Author's Note:**

> So oral isn't actually actually barebacking but yknow...i kind of forgot that until the end so WHOOPS

“ _Damn_ it.” Sebastian rifled one-handedly through his wallet, nearly dropping it onto the filthy bathroom floor. It had been ages since he was foolhardy enough to keep a rubber on him—and even longer since doing so didn’t fill him with scalding embarrassment. The few drinks he’d had weren’t helping, though it had done little more than make him a bit light-headed. The pounding music still audible through the bathroom door was doing more to make him feel off-kilter. Hastily, he stowed it back into his wallet, trying not to drop it—he wasn’t sure he’d have the heart to pick it back up again.

The boy—or man, Sebastian couldn’t be sure of his age, and though he seemed somewhere in his mid-twenties there was a youthful desperation to him that reminded Sebastian of his teenage years—pulled down on his shoulders, biting at his lips in what could be called a kiss. Not entirely the best kisser, but absolutely ferocious with thwarted need. He’d driven Sebastian nearly insane, pulling at clothes to touch skin, groaning and pressing into every touch, hiking those skinny legs up around Sebastian’s hips, rubbing against him with dangerous abandon. “I don’t have anything,” Sebastian breathed against the boy’s lips, feeling them slicked with their intermingled spit.

Feverish, deep-set black eyes looked up at him, wide with a mad sort of fervor. “I don’t care,” he replied, his voice coming out low and rough. Breathless. “You can fuck me on the floor, for all I care.” He crashed his mouth into Sebastian’s again, nearly knocking their skulls together. Sebastian took him firmly by the back of the neck and forced him to slow down and actually _kiss._ He groaned as if in protest, still tasting residually of the last shot of rum he’d done—sweet and sharp. His cheeks were hot and flushed, either by the alcohol or the heat of their activities, his whole body throwing off a convection current that thrummed just under his skin. That clever little tongue darted over the boy’s lips, wetting them so they shone in the dingy light.

“I truly wouldn’t advise that,” Sebastian replied, slipping his hands under the boy’s shirt to take in the expanse of bare skin. The boy flinched, as if his hands were cold, but purred and moved along with Sebastian’s touch as he pulled them further up his back. The low, growling, _needy_ sound buzzed against Sebastian’s lips as their mouths came together again, hungry, the sound reverberating in Sebastian’s chest and going straight to his cock.  “We’re more likely to catch a disease from these floors than we are from each other.”

The boy didn’t even reply, trying to press his lithe body against Sebastian’s and buck his narrow hips into Sebastian’s own, while also fumbling blindly with Sebastian’s belt. It was an awkward, clumsy, combination, and Sebastian wanted to laugh at the sheer abandon of it all--fucking in a grimy bathroom stall in a nightclub that probably always smelled vaguely of vomit. Still, there was something to the feverish pitch of the boy’s desperation that was arresting, magnetic. Like he was starved, found parched and wandering in a searing desert, and Sebastian was his first meal.

Sebastian pulled a hand away from the boy’s slender back and reached between them to undo his jeans. The boy pulled him back against the bathroom door, hard enough there was a muffled _thud,_ then slid down between Sebastian’s body and the door--a truly ugly piece of warped metal that was covered in flaking, yellow paint and outdated band flyers—until he was on his knees, kneeling in god knows what. Sebastian shuddered, reaching down to take a handful of his leather jacket and pull him off the filthy floor, until he was arrested by the wet heat of the boy’s mouth pressing into the front of his pants.

“ _Fuck_ —" was all Sebastian managed to say before the boy had pulled him out and wrapped the silken heat of his mouth around his cock, silencing him completely. It was all he could do to keep breathing as the boy’s already impressive cheekbones hollowed out, the pressure incredible. He’d grabbed onto the top of the stall’s door against his better judgement to keep from toppling should his knees unexpectedly buckle, his other hand finding the boy’s spiked-up hair and taking a fistful. It was softer than he expected. The boy gave a muffled moan as Sebastian accidentally gave his hair a sharper tug than intended.

He could hardly believe the fireworks show going off inside him, like the time he’d been in New York for New Year’s. Sparkling, fizzling pleasure was forcing its way up his spine, making him gasp and pant with frightening abandon—if someone were to walk in—

All thoughts of catastrophe were blasted from his mind as the boy pushed his way further down his length with a labored grunt. His breath was coming in wet, snuffling sounds—even in the dim light Sebastian could tell he’d worked Sebastian down his throat. It was much more coordination than Sebastian had expected from someone so overeager he kissed like a shark, and it was working down whatever self-control he had left. The boy made a sound in the back of his throat that sent a pulse of danger running through Sebastian—he felt his hips buck and the boy made a wet, strangled sound.

“Sorry,” Sebastian gasped out, only to receive an enthusiastic sound in reply, combined with the boy’s arms curling around the back of his legs, pulling at his thighs. _Fuck._ He couldn’t have _liked_ it, could he? Experimentally, Sebastian gave a smoother, gentler roll of his hips, fucking into the boy’s throat, forcing him against the stall door. The boy moaned again in response, his tongue moving against Sebastian’s underside in a way that made give a strangled cry—out loud, for anyone to hear. He half expected the door to crash open at any second, spilling out drunk, rowdy people, and here he was with a stranger’s mouth around his cock—

Sebastian made it only a few more harsh thrusts before he came with a profound gasp, spilling down the boy’s throat. He grabbed at the top of the stall door to keep from stumbling, clinging to it like a lifeline. The world had resolved down to pure, throbbing bliss for just a few precious seconds, leaving him capsized in its turbulent wake. Clumsily, he pulled out with a slick, filthy sound, and the boy fell forward onto his hands, gasping for breath. Through his haze, Sebastian made a mental note to wash _both_ their hands.

Still panting, he leaned down and helped the boy to his feet, hauling him up by one leather-clad shoulder. He collapsed against the stall’s wall, still catching his breath, his white face just centimeters from where someone had scrawled a very bulbous penis in Sharpie over the remnants of a sticker that had been ripped off. He followed Sebastian’s gaze to it and grinned,  the strange camaraderie of fucking in a bathroom stall. His eyes sparkled with mischief, like twin black stones. “Dare me to lick that one too?”

Sebastian snorted out a laugh, reaching down to do up his zipper. The boy had thoughtfully—or hungrily—licked him clean, and although it felt sinful not to wipe himself down, he doubted anything in this bathroom would make him feel any more clean. “God, no. Don’t you dare.”

A nudge against his arm as the boy leaned into him, resting his forehead on Sebastian’s shoulder. Surprised by the reaffirmation of closeness, Sebastian put an arm around him, feeling his breath hot against his chest. His voice was muffled by Sebastian’s shirt when he said, “I would totally do it just to see your face.”

Sebastian sighed and pushed his hand away from his mouth where he was attempting to wipe at his mouth with his hand. “I’m very glad to hear my very legitimate fears of germs are a source of entertainment to you. Now let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”

 

 


	2. Simon/Sebastian, bloodplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in COLS, Simon goes to rescue Jace in place of Clary because the Mark of Cain can blow anyone who messes with him to shit, Jace is out on an errand when Simon realizes he forgot to pack blood. Sebastian has an idea.

“No,” said Simon. “No, no, _no—_ that’s Spanish for no, by the way—no, and no. Absolutely not. Categorically in no universe will that ever happen, and I say that taking into account the multiverse and string theory or whatever. Seriously, no freaking way.”

Clary’s weird demon brother sighed, kicking up his (unfairly) long legs onto the fancy glass coffee table. He wore his shoes indoors, which Simon’s upbringing in his mother’s and grandmother’s home could hardly begin to fathom. Still, the aforementioned shoes were also fancy and the pointed-toe kind that made his legs look even longer, especially in those slimming dress pants. Had Simon mentioned that was unfair? “Be my guest, starve yourself to death. I hear the last throes of death by blood starvation are the best—rattles, shakes, uncontrollable thirst for blood. Maybe you could even hold out until my angel brother returns and attack him like a wild animal. Would make a very good home video.” 

He held up his phone, a slim black iPhone X, then put it down on the coffee table and relaxed back into the black leather couch with a distinctly superior air, bringing his glass of wine to his lips (Simon was starting to think he had a serious day-drinking problem). Simon stayed mutinously silent for a few moments, occasionally breaking his deliberate lack of eye contact to shoot a glare Sebastian’s way, then finally broke down when the silence—and Sebastian’s all-too-knowing gaze on his back—was too much. 

“Fine, say I believe you and there’s really no blood donation places I can get blood at—which I really don’t, by the way. How can I know your blood won’t like...hurt me, or something? Maybe you just injected holy water, or something.” Simon wasn’t sure what the Mark of Cain’s policy on ingested poisons is—would he projectile shoot venom Sebastian’s way if he was poisoned? If so, he was definitely going to have to avoid that one. It sounded very traumatic. Unfortunately, the Mark didn’t really come with a user’s manual.

Sebastian looked bored, fingering the stem of his wine glass. Simon had to wonder if he’d been to the School For Really Pale Villains, or if it was a genuine affectation. “As I told you before, this is a very old, very Catholic district of Paris. The Jesuits slaughtered the vampires living here, destroying all but the lowest underbelly of vampire society. You won’t find any donated blood anywhere in the city, I’m afraid.” He took another slow, measured sip of wine. “As for my blood, you’ve already drank it. Surely a few sips more can’t hurt.”

“Yeah, and it tasted like shit. No offense,” Simon added quickly. Telling someone their blood tasted bad had to be rude, right? Especially when the bloodletting altercation in question...hadn’t exactly been pleasant. Still, it had tasted like battery acid, harsh and acrid, burning at Simon’s tongue. Definitely worse than the medication Simon had to take when he was eight, which up until that point he’d thought was the worst tasting thing in the world.

Sebastian lips turned down into a bemused smile, and before he even opened his mouth Simon knew he was being patronized. “You really don’t know? Blood only tastes like what it carries—hormones, vitamins, nutrients, toxins. Taking a bite out of someone in battle when the stress and aggression is high is going to be much different than biting in bed when...” His eyebrows raised, suggestively. “Well, you know.”

Simon did not, in fact, know this, mostly because he’d never fed on a live human (except that one time. and that other time. and okay it kind of happened a lot but always not his fault). Still, it made sense, even if the source was dubious. Moreover, he was curious how Sebastian knew so much about vampire feeding. Maybe he had a vampire friend. “Really?”

“Mmm hmm.” Sebastian was clearly enjoying telling him things he didn’t know, stretching out on the sofa like a very self-satisfied (and skinny) white cat sunbathing. “Come on, just a little sip. Maybe it’ll last you until Jace is back, and we can take the apartment anywhere your delicate little conscience wants to eat.”

He had a point. Surely a little sip couldn’t hurt when Simon had already chugged a fair bit of it, (never mind that was basically frat boy logic). Also, he was really freaking hungry. His stomach didn’t rumble anymore—which was good, because as a living human stomach Simon’s stomach tended to embarrass him by making loud noises at the most inopportune moments—but if it did, it would be rumbling now. Also, the mental image of throwing himself at Jace the second he opened the door was too humiliating to bear. Surely he’d make fun of Simon forever and a half.

“But what about Jace?” Simon asked. “Won’t he, like, start gushing blood too, what with the—” Simon bit down on the words _creepy demon ritual bond_ and added, hurriedly, “Twinning thing.”

Sebastian gave a bored shrug. “He should feel a pinch when you bite, but not much more. We don’t share all our papercuts, you know. Just major injuries, or life-threatening ones. Besides, my blood replenishes faster than his does. He won’t notice a thing.”

“Fine. _One_ sip.” Simon felt like he was giving in way too fast, but he’d always been bad at pretending to be above these things. Awkwardly, he took a stuttering step towards the couch, then faltered. Sebastian gave him a smug look and moved over so that the couch cushion he’d been on previously was free, patting it with a pale hand. Simon sat, trying not to let his apprehension show (and failing). He looked at Sebastian’s hand, trying his best to keep his fangs from snapping out at the sight of the tiny little veins pulsing in his wrist. “Um, should I—or—?”

Sebastian looked amused, pulling open his collar. Simon could feel the heat and _smell_ of him rolling off him in waves, the fresh pulse of life just under the surface. Since when did he freaking talk that way, anyway? ‘Fresh pulse of life?’ Get a grip, Lewis. You’re not in _Twilight_ erotica. Simon forced his thoughts away from _Twilight_ erotica and back to Sebastian, who was now uncomfortably yet tantalizingly close. Simon could make out every single one of his extremely long, translucent lashes. His nose was weirdly sculpted, like he’d had plastic surgery. The thought of Clary’s weird demon brother having plastic surgery was too much and he snorted, just a little.

Sebastian looked annoyed. “Is there something funny?”

“Um, nothing,” Simon assured him, very quickly. “So, um, wrist or arm or...?”

“Don’t be silly.” The superior tone was back as quickly as Sebastian’s face had flashed its annoyance. “Blood fresh from the heart has more nutrients. Everyone knows that.” He moored his wine glass on the table and pulled back his collar, exposing the long, pale column of his neck. His voice was weirdly soft and his gaze unusually intense when he said, “This will sate you most.” 

“Oh,” said Simon. _Sate_ was definitely a normal word that normal people used in normal situations. “Right, yeah, um, totally not weird at all. Gotcha.” He rubbed his hands together, warming them up, then very very carefully put out a hand and laid it uncomfortably on Sebastian’s shoulder. It was warm, and deceptively thin, almost delicate. If he hadn’t seen Sebastian pick up Jace like he’d weighed nothing, he wouldn’t have thought him much stronger than himself—pre vampire glow-up. 

Sebastian rolled his eyes and leaned in so that his pulse was just against Simon’s lips, so close Simon could feel his heartbeat against his mouth. It was a weird, electric feeling, and Simon found himself marveling at its slow, steady beat, like a metronome. (His own heart, for the record, was fluttering at breakneck speeds against his ribcage). His fangs slid out, a lot less painfully than usual, and Simon bit down, tentatively.

A sigh passed Sebastian’s lips and salty sweetness exploded into Simon’s mouth, like a kick to the face. He bit down, harder, savoring the blood rushing into his mouth. There was an edge to it that hadn’t been in Jace’s, like the strong sharpness of vodka, mixed with a strange undercurrent Simon couldn’t place, but it tasted _good_ , nothing like the harsh metallic taste of before. He drank and drank, but it seemed no matter how much he got it still tasted so _good,_ nothing like the microwaved bagged stuff he got at the Hunter’s Moon.

Dimly, he could feel Sebastian shift against him—without any urgency. Simon groaned internally, the way he did when he didn’t want to get out of bed. If Sebastian wanted him to stop, he’d stop, but he really didn’t want to. 

A languid sound vibrated in his chest and belatedly Simon realized Sebastian had made it. Something between a sigh and a groan, a sound of--pleasure? Was he _enjoying_ this? A curtain of fog lifted, Simon’s mind spinning out. He felt Sebastian’s hand bump his knee and—

“Holy shit are you—are you _touching yourself_?!” Simon could hear his own voice scale an octave as he jerked back, and hated it. So much for magical vampire ‘no voice cracks.’ “What the hell, dude?”

Sebastian smiled, in the least comforting display of human emotion known to man. His blood was trailing down his neck in dark, tantalizing rivulets, seeping into the crisp white of his dress shirt. No blood, not even arterial blood, was this dark. His gaze was _waaay_ too intense and his voice shockingly husky when he said, “Please, daylighter. Don’t tell me no one has given you a full-course meal before.”

“Um,” said Simon. Apart from full-on admitting to Clary’s (weird) older brother that he was a virgin at 19 (awesome!) and hadn’t really done anything except one very unfortunate makeout session behind a shed when he was 15, he didn’t see any way out of his ignorance. Hadn’t Sebastian said something about physiology affecting how blood tastes? “No offense, dude, but usually when you’re like, eating a steak or whatever, you really hope it isn’t jacking it at the same time, you know?”

There was a ‘beating meat’ joke in there somewhere, but Simon didn’t trust his current presence of mind enough to find it.

Sebastian seemed unaffected by his protestations. “You’re not eating, you’re _feeding_ —on a living, voluntary participant. A performance of two parts, if you will.” He leaned in, and Simon had to pull back at the smell of blood to keep from clamping onto his neck like a very handsome, dashing leech. He traced a finger down Simon’s chin, pulling back his fingertip with a droplet of his own blood. He sucked at the tip of his finger, and Simon’s stomach did a strange little flip he did _not_ want to think about. “So if you don’t mind, you keep to performing your part, and I’ll perform mine.”

A large part of Simon’s brain was screaming to lick up the blood dribbling perilously close to Sebastian’s chest—when had his shirt come that far undone?—so he avoided that no-doubt perilous outcome and ducked in and bit down again, grabbing at Sebastian’s back for better purchase. Fresh blood welled in his mouth, the flavor more complex—notes of sweetness mixed with hints of bitterness. Simon did his best to ignore that Sebastian had hiked one leg up to the couch and was teasing his inner thigh with long fingers--probably good for piano playing, some remote part of him thought. His pulse had picked up, though still steady, beating out a slightly more _staccato_ tempo, though his breath felt unsteady as it brushed hot against Simon’s cheek.

He really hoped Jace didn’t come back right then and find Simon with a mouthful of Sebastian’s blood, and Sebastian with his legs...like that. Simon was quite sure he’d die of embarrassment on the spot, Mark of Cain get fucked. He could just imagine Jace’s smirk right now. “ _My blood wasn’t enough for you, Lewis?”_ he’d say, probably flexing. “ _Really, I’m insulted. Also how come I didn’t get this treatment, too? Is there something you need to tell me about our relationship?”  
_

Simon wasn’t at all sure what Clary saw in him, but he had also been pretty sure he wasn’t going to gorge himself on Sebastian’s blood, either, and that had been just about two minutes ago. Maybe Jace would grow on him. Some day. Even though he was technically dead, Simon wasn’t holding his breath. 

Dimly, Simon could feel Sebastian shifting around him, and himself pressing into him. He could feel Sebastian’s heartbeat in his own chest, the sensation unnervingly familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, the rush of blood under his skin. Sebastian’s breath was coming fast and sharp, his pulse swift and sending sharp sparks of sweetness into his blood. Simon could feel that he was breathing hard with him, even if there was nowhere for the oxygen in his lungs to go, his whole body throbbing with the heady power of Sebastian’s blood. Far from sating him, the blood had awakened a deep hunger in him, like standing on the precipice hanging over a very long, dark drop. 

Simon felt dizzy with it, chasing the sparks of sweetness, Sebastian’s soft sighs falling away into the addictive heat and richness of his blood. That undercurrent of bitterness was back, but instead of being gross it was incredible, a completeness and complexity that made his chest full and warm like a shot of vodka. (Raiding his mom’s liquor cabinet with Clary when they were kids had been a _horrible_ idea). Greedily, Simon bit down harder and Sebastian groaned, his back arching—

Dazzling sweetness fizzled against his tongue, jolting him with an incredible rush. Sunlight sang in his veins, like the first time he’d felt the heat of sun’s touch on his skin after he thought he’d never see it again. Fireworks popped behind his eyelids as he gasped, wholly overwhelmed, against Sebastian’s neck. Sebastian’s taut spine went soft beneath him, his whole body pliable as clay, and Simon was unable to rid himself of the nagging thought that this was what jacking off furtively in the shower felt like, only like twenty times better.

Tentatively, Simon opened his eyes. Sebastian smiled up at him, looking very self-satisfied. He was slumped against the back of the couch, which Simon had pushed him up against. His eyes, normally inky-black and whippet-sharp, were looking soft, a bit hazy—probably with blood loss. Not for the first time, Simon was arrested by the the unnatural whiteness of his hair, like bleached bones. (Simon only knew what bleached bones looked like because he and Clary had once found one on the beach. They had both been very dissappointed to know it was not, in fact, a human bone, but a chicken’s). 

Then his gaze turned to Sebastian’s neck and chest and Simon yelped, nearly jerking backwards off the couch; only his vampire reflexes caught him from what would have been a very ungainly and embarrassing demise. Sebastian’s chest was slicked and smeared with blood, all the way to his stomach, his shirt soaked through with spreading darkness. Simon’s own shirt—an Ironman shirt he’d gotten off TeeSpring—was wet and sticky with blood. “Eww,” Simon whispered, pulling the wet shirt away from his skin. It flopped back onto his chest when he let it go, wet and now cold. “ _Ewwwww.”  
_

 _“_ Don’t worry, you’re hardly the world’s first messy eater.” Sebastian’s voice was a bit slurred, his movements slightly sluggish when he reached for his wine glass and drained it off in a single gulp. He smiled, the way one might smile at a particularly lush piece of cheesecake at the Cheesecake Factory. “Feeling better?”

“Um, yeah, thanks.” Simon muttered, a bit shamefaced. Had he gotten blood on the couch? Could you even get blood out of leather? He was quite sure that was a question shadowhunters asked themselves all the time. “Sorry if I, uh, got carried away, or whatever.”

Sebastian gave an abrupt little laugh, turning his gaze up towards the ceiling. “Believe me, I like carried away.”

Simon was silent a moment, trying to formulate the question in his mind. _Hey dude, not in the weird way, but did you orgasm and did I...taste it? Again, not in the weird way. “_ How....how did you _do_ that?”

Sebastian’s lips pulled down into a droll smile, his head lolling Simon’s way on the couch cushion. “My, it really was your first time, wasn’t it?” Before Simon could blush and trip over himself to stammer out a million words, he added, “Perhaps I’ve been a bit dishonest. I’ve frequented many bleeder dens and, ah, perfected the technique.”

Simon knew what bleeder dens were, even if he’d never been to one. _Great way to get tetanus,_ Jace had told him. _Also very gross, very Count Dracula_. _Wouldn’t recommend._ He could imagine Sebastian fitting right in, though. _So, like a vampire sex club?_ Clay had asked, and Isabelle had laughed. _Exactly like that._ “The technique?”

“Orgasm makes the blood incredibly sweet,” Sebastian explained, as if Simon were an idiot. He gave a pointed look downward. “Though I must say you seem to have enjoyed it more than most.”

Simon had the urge to yank off the Seelie ring, lest Clary somehow hear any part of this conversation. It occurred to him he should have done that ages ago, like maybe before the messy blood orgy for two started. How did those things even work, anyway? Yet another thing that didn’t come with an operator’s manual. (Simon was a very firm believer in reading the manual. Clary, by contrast, preferred to play board games without reading the rules). “Oh, um, that’s weird—”

“Don’t worry, I enjoyed it too.” Sebastian leaned in, pressing a paralyzingly light kiss to Simon’s cheek. His hand went automatically to the spot, even as his soul recoiled in horror. Clary had not actually stipulated _don’t make out with my evil demon brother,_ but Simon was pretty sure that was on the unspoken list of friend rules. like maybe at the very top, highlighted in neon, and flashing with a few sirens going off.

He also really kind of wanted to make out with Clary’s evil demon brother. The thought made him despair.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Sebastian told him with a lingering look, standing up with impressive grace for someone who was currently wearing a whole lot of his own blood as a fashion statement. “I suggest you change your shirt, lest my brother return and think you’ve taken to cannibalism. Maybe rest an hour or so, and then I’ll be ready again.” To Simon’s raised eyebrows and wide eyes, he said, with a glimmer of a dark wink, “The femoral artery is a real treat, for both of us. You’ll love it, I promise.”

 


	3. Clary/Jonathan, dom/sub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set maybe a couple weeks after 3x18, completely and blithely ignoring the plot (Jonathan creeping on Clary whomst?), any and all consent issues of the bond, and pretending Clary ate some really weird shellfish that didn’t agree with her and woke up a Jonathan stan (and really thirsty, apparently).
> 
> See end notes for more warnings.

Jonathan lowered the teacup carefully onto the side table next to Clary’s chair, taking great pains not to spill any. The teapcup rattled against its saucer as he placed it on a coaster, setting down the sugar bowl and a silver spoon beside it. “I made the Earl Grey,” he said, when she did not immediately turn to look. “I wasn’t sure how much sugar you like, so I put in two. But there’s more tea or sugar if you don’t like it–”

“Thank you, Jonathan.” Clary cut him off, looking up from the fireplace. He had to push down on a reflexive smile as her gaze fell on him, raking down his body. He’d agonized over what to wear for what felt like hours, and had finally settled on a slim pair of black slacks and a sweater that showed off his waist, as Clary liked. She patted her knee, gracing him with a smile. “Come on. Sit down.”

Jonathan hesitated, just for a second. The heat of the fire on the back of his neck, as well as the high, haughty spires of Lilith’s favorite chair sitting next to hers brought a memory to the surface, of sitting on Lilith’s lap as a child. She loved to hold him like that, like a real mother, to comb his hair and kiss his forehead like he was a baby.

He forced out the breath that had stuck in his chest, crossing over the brocade rug to lower himself carefully onto her lap. Clary grinned, scooping an arm under his knees and swinging his legs up over the chair’s arm. They’d gone and bought the largest armchair they could find, a huge, soft red-leather thing studded with bronze hardware that could easily fit both of them sitting side by side, for this very purpose. Jonathan leaned back against the other arm, tipping his head back so that it pillowed on the chair’s cushion, and let Clary push his legs further apart, teasing at his inner thigh. “How was your day?”

Clary smiled, pressing an insistent kiss to his lips. He chased it, tasting the aftertaste of chocolate on her tongue. He’d brought her back a choclatine from Paris after she’d portaled him there, and she’d devoured it with all the enthusiasm of last time. “Productive. I think I may have found a way to suppress the barometric drop when the apartment moves. It’s an old, simple spell, but any two-bit warlock should be able to do it. It should keep the Clave off our trail, at any rate.” She reached for her tea. “Also, I did a lot of online shopping and played a couple hours of runescape. The wifi here is incredible.”

“With 128 down? It better be.” Jonathan gamely accepted a sip of her tea as she raised it to his lips, then gave a mock frown. “But I can’t believe you went shopping without me.”

Clary laughed. “I promise you’ll like what I bought. But it’s a surprise.” She pushed at the hem of his sweater, pulling it up over his stomach and trailing a fingertip over his bared skin. Jonathan flinched—it was so unbearably good, the tickle of her touch just like the gentle lick of fire. “One of them is even for you.”

Jonathan looked up, too fast, unable to suppress the reflexive high of _for me? “_ That’s just teasing,” he said, pulling his mouth down into a pout. “You know I’m horrible at having patience.”

“That’s what makes teasing fun,” she replied, snaking a hand up his shirt to pinch one of his sensitive nipples. He gasped, arching up his back and wriggling helplessly in her lap. He loved it when she did this, reach through the bond and give him exactly what he needed. He’d noticed the reactivity of his body had changed as the bond grew stronger—for starters, satisfying Clary had the unexpected perk of unlocking consecutive orgasms–but it was more than that. His body came _alive_ for her, sensitive in ways and places it hadn’t been before. His stomach, his chest, his inner thighs, the backs of his knees, the sides of his neck lit up at her touch. Before, a touch to his back brought to mind his father’s belt buckle bruising his bones for disobedience. Now, he had hazy mornings of Clary’s hands roaming over his back and tracing over his vertebrae to fight back with.

“Just a little hint,” he begged, holding onto her hand. He wasn’t ashamed to beg for Clary, not anymore. She loved to give him what he wanted, to feed it to him with her fingers and let him lick them clean. He cracked the bones of whatever morsels she gave him, sucking at the marrow, gnawing them clean. He was good like that.

“No hints,” Clary said, and kissed him again. “But I _will_ show you what I almost bought you, but didn’t.”

Putting down her tea, she pulled out her phone and tapped at the screen, then held it out so he could see. On the screen was an elegant woman wearing a long, coral-colored dress. The material was light, arid, diaphanous, like something the seelies would spin. Silk petals, pink and blue and white lined the open shoulders and translucent sleeves, scattered over the expanding skirt from the pulled-in waist. She looked beautiful, her fine bones and far-off expression giving the impression of alabaster.

Clary giggled. “Because you’re my princess in a tower. Get it?”

Jonathan looked up, into her eyes. They were a golden brown, like mead or whiskey, and twice as intoxicating. “I love it.”

She bumped his nose, fondly. “Yeah, well, be glad I didn’t actually get it. For starters, it’s nearly two thousand USD.”

“You don’t have to actually buy it.” He was full of energy, all of a sudden, buoyed by the concept. He sat up, or at least attempted to–he’d relaxed to the point of bonelessness, the constant tension bled out of his body. “I can wear it for you.”

“You…actually want to?” Clary sounded a little surprised, but not incredulous. She touched his cheek, smoothed his mussed hair. “You don’t have to, sweetheart. Unless you want to.”

Jonathan wanted. He wanted to feel her eyes on him, knowing she’d picked it out especially for him. He wanted her voice in his ear, saying _that’s my little princess._ He wanted to be anything, everything she desired. “Of course,” he said, swinging his legs off the armchair and sitting upright. She let him take her phone as he stood, turning his back to her as he studied the dress, taking in every detail. Then, breathing in deeply, he closed his eyes and drew on the wellspring of _dark_ inside him, letting the picture in his mind’s eye paint itself over his skin.

Clary sucked in a breath and he knew it had worked. Something intensely scratchy was tickling his chest, and he opened his eyes to rub at it. The bunched tulle neckline fell a few inches under his collarbones, showing off the curve of his shoulders. The bodice was tight enough that it was taut over his chest, clinging down to his waist, the bunched cuffs a bit tight around his wrists. Jonathan turned, tentative, and the skirts whispered and swayed around him. 

Clary was looking at him with rapt attention, her eyes sweeping up and down and all over him and he basked in the attention. She stood and approached, careful not to step on the hem of his dress, touching his waist. “You look beautiful,” she said, and there was a measure of reverence in her voice that made Jonathan’s blood heat. She pulled him in for a kiss, his skirts swishing around her legs. Jonathan melted into her, sighing as her hand brushed the buttons running up his back. Her hair brushed his face, cool and soft, and Jonathan shuddered at the intimacy of it. “How would you like to thank me for your rescue, princess?” she asked, pacing behind him to breathe the words right against the shell of his ear. “On your knees, or on the bed?”

“Yes,” Jonathan gasped, then felt himself flush. “Er, on the bed,” he corrected himself, and Clary gave him a pinched little smile that suggested she was trying very hard not to laugh. She slid a hand over his shoulder, her rings dragging on his skin, and he shuddered again, unable to keep a sound from escaping his throat when her hand slid up his neck and gripped the base of his skull—not hard, but firm.

“Good,” she replied, shortly, and Jonathan’s breath caught in his chest. If he hadn’t just said he wanted it on the bed he would have dropped to his knees for her then and there, however she wanted him. “Now be a good boy while I restrain you.”

Before Jonathan could point out that there was unfortunately no rope in the apartment, Clary snagged her phone charging cable off the table and held it up, looking triumphant. Jonathan extended his wrists eagerly, hissing as she bound them up tight, lacing the ends up together and pulling hard. The cable dug into his skin and he loved it, the harsh ache whenever he moved his arms or his fingers, the black cord obvious against the pale fabric of the dress.

“Should I try to bridal-carry you to the room?” Clary asked. She grinned, pulling at his waist. “I bet I could carry you.”

Jonathan was quite sure she could. He was also quite sure he was flushing at the thought. “As long as you promise not to drop me.”

She pushed up on her toes to kiss him. “No promises.”

Before he could protest she’d dug through his skirt to his knees, scooping him up with a profound _oof._ There was a bit of staggering and a bit more swearing, but at last she hoisted him aloft, a bundle of skirts. Jonathan put his arms around the back of her neck, holding himself aloft. After a lot of staggering, swearing, and laughing, Clary deposited him onto the bed. Jonathan met her enthusiasm with his own, scrambling up the mattress to let her clamber on after him. It hurt with his wrists tied but he didn’t mind the pain–if anything, it was making him more eager.

“You came for me,” he blurted out, unable to stop himself, as if it were nearing midnight and his stagecoach was about to turn back to a pumpkin. Clary had watched all the fairytale films with him, curling up with him in the armchair and holding him close. He’d cried more than once, moved by the simple magic of the stories themselves. But more than that, he’d gotten back a piece of their childhood that had never existed—a magic unto its own.

“I came for you,” Clary replied, and cradled his cheek in her hand. It was warm, calloused and rough from months of intensive training, and he leaned into the touch. He’d caught himself on his elbows and Clary had crawled over his legs, propping herself up over his chest, rustling his skirt with every movement. He could feel her breath on his chest, her hair trailing over his sides. She was _right there,_ flesh and bone and _real,_ and Jonathan hardly dared to believe it. And more than that, she was smiling, looking like she’d gotten something she really wanted. Looking at _him_. Among all the other myriad things she’d chosen in life, from clothes to toothpaste to the placement of her runes to the knife she’d stuck in their father’s throat, even for a brief period she had chosen him.

“Roll over for me, princess,” Clary whispered, and Jonathan obeyed, settling back against the pillows and turning onto his side. She pulled away and nudged his conjoined hands and he stretched so that they were propped up over his head, putting a pleasureable strain in his shoulders. He lowered himself onto his stomach, flushing with heat as Clary pulled at his skirts, exposing his legs to the cold air. Her weight shifted on the mattress as she reached into the bedside table for her harness—her first present to him. It clanked and jingled against the wood as she pulled it out and fastened it around her hips—he could just make out her movements over his shoulder, and he could feel his anticipation mounting. If he hadn’t known it would get him a reprimand, he would have rubbed his hips and chest against the bedspread. As it was he was impatient, yearning to scratch the itch, to do _anything.  
_

Clary gave his thigh a smack, as if reading his mind. “Patience,” she said, firm without being hard. Jonathan stilled instantly. Boundaries were always difficult, always invisible and shifting, but Clary was very good at giving them and he was learning with great eagerness to color inside the lines. He waited until she was ready, hardly able to contain his sounds of excitement as she grabbed his ass. “You prepared for me, didn’t you?” she asked, sounding impressed as she removed her rings to probe him easily with a finger. She rewarded him with a little kiss to his back, between his shoulder blades. “Good boy. Do you need anything else, or do you want to take me as you are right now?”

“Now,” Jonathan gasped out, into the pillow. He’d tightened up since he’d prepared after getting home to the apartment and made Clary her tea, but he’d slicked himself with plenty of lube. Besides, he loved nothing more than a little roughness.

Another smack, sharp enough to make him cry out. Clary had a mean slap when she wanted to. “Now, _please.”  
_

 _“Now, please,”_ Jonathan repeated, unable to keep a little of what she called ‘sulking’ out of his voice. The back of his thigh stung, as did the reprimand—he hated more than anything to do things wrong, dare he make her angry—but a softer touch to his shoulder told him all was forgiven. 

“Then get on your back for me,” Clary instructed, her voice dripping in dark honey. Jonathan obeyed, wriggling around so that he was on his back. His wrists were starting to ache and he dress had twisted around his legs—how _did_ anyone move in these things? She managed to find his knees and push them apart, but the mess of skirts was getting in the way, falling in Jonathan’s face. He batted them away, impatient, as Clary drew one of her _kindjals_ and sliced through them like taffeta. 

Jonathan exhaled, shakily. “I thought you were going to cut me with that,” he said, giving her one of the looks he knew she liked—the little smile through his lashes. Playful, she called it.

“And I assume by that you mean you wouldn’t be opposed to it?” Clary sheathed the blade and Jonathan watched, hungrily, as her shaft moved with her. She gave him a teasing smile, pushing the ruined folds of the dress away from his legs. He liked that smile. “Maybe just a little cut. If you behave.”

She spread his legs wide, making his breath hitch. Being open, vulnerable—he liked it as much as he liked the edge of fear it brought. Clary always seemed to know what she wanted with incredible precision, but he had no such luxury. Want and hurt felt like they were separated by a knife’s edge, so easy to mistake one for the other. Jonathan was very good at making mistakes.

“Remember the word if anything gets too much,” Clary said, softly. “Repeat it back to me.”

Jonathan swallowed, meeting her eyes. They were calm, steady, everything he didn’t feel. “Lemondrop,” he said. Bittersweetness filled his mouth, the memory of the first candy he’d ever had. His father had taken him to the shadow market for business, and he’d stolen one of the enticing yellow things when his father wasn’t looking. He still remembered the overwhelming awe and wonder he’d felt as the flavor had exploded in his mouth, so intense he’d nearly spit it back out. He’d nursed the candy in his mouth until it was gone, and thought wistfully of it for months, when he was back in the cabin eating tasteless cereal and dried meats so hard they made his teeth hurt if he didn’t soak them in water first.

“Good,” Clary replied, then rummaged for a moment in her pocket, pulling out her favorite tube of lipstick. “Hold still,” she said, then opened it up and gently smeared it over his lips. It was soft and silky and she traced his mouth carefully, molding the lines as she would one of her paintings. Once she was done he reached up to touch it, but she slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch it, it’ll smear,” she said, then leaned in and kissed him, slow and messy, and he could feel her lips moving over his, smearing the lipstick over both their faces.

When she pulled back, arranging his legs around his waist, he could imagine the mess they’d made of his own face, and smiled. It felt territorial, marking him as her own, as _claimed._ Taken. No one could dare profane artwork she made on him but her, not even himself. Jonathan sighed in satisfaction as she lifted his hips off the bed, pulling them towards her own just enough so that he could rest on her knees, spread wide for balance. Her jeans were rough against his bare skin but he loved it, the feeling of her clothes against his skin, craving the smoothness of the leather of her jacket.

Without fanfare, Clary leaned forward and pushed into him. Jonathan made a wordless sound, less a cry than an exclamation, pressing his head back in bliss as his pulse thundered in his skull. _Yes, yes, yes_ —every inch of her was perfect, pulling him apart. The ache stung more sharply than he anticipated, but he’d asked for this, to feel deliciously abused as she pushed inside. With his bound hands he grabbed at the wrought iron headboard, pulling on the bars hard as Clary worked her way into him. What had seemed like a copious portion of lube now seemed like hardly enough, but still he bucked his hips, weakly, trying to push himself deeper, though he had to be careful. Too much pain and she’d feel it too. They had to ride that knife’s edge separating his pain from hers.

She smiled at his desperation and put two fingers to his bottom lip. “Good boy.” 

He closed his lips around her fingertips and sucked, pushing the tip of his tongue against her nails and the ridged pads of her fingers. She bottomed out with a jerk and Jonathan moaned, grateful. To his great shame his eyes were watering with the incredible strain and pressure. “Clary,” he tried to say, but it came out garbled and muffled.

Clary rocked her hips and Jonathan felt himself whine as pain turned to pleasure. Every time he felt it was too much, like magic, the ache turned into another kind of ache, an ache and hunger for more. She leaned into him, bracing her arms over his shoulders, her hair falling down around her face, and Jonathan whimpered again at the shift. Then she _moved,_ and Jonathan felt that pure, perfect drag inside him and _moaned_ , all the world falling to pieces around him. Clary’s hand latched around his throat just as he liked, cutting off most of his breath. She’d lectured him on how it was dangerous, that this wasn’t the safe way to choke him, but he’d begged and wheedled until she’d given in and let him have the perfect build of oxygen burn. 

She fucked him until he felt so raw it ached and burned and Jonathan begged silently for release, challenging herself as much as torturing him. “ _Clary_ ,” he managed to gasp out, a plea and an exhortation and an exclamation all at once, and she slowed the brutal pace. She’d thrown off her jacket and was glistening with sweat, letting him marvel at the taut definition of her muscles, the hard determination in her eyes and the set of her mouth. The same determination she’d worn when she’d cut off the Seelie’s head and wrestled him out of his chains, grabbing his hand through the restraint jacket and saying, in a tone that allowed no other option, _“Run.”_

Clary pulled her hand away from his throat and Jonathan fought to hold his breath, obstinate. Spots were playing over his vision and he could feel himself arching off the bed as if possessed; Clary swiped her hair out of her face and twisted her hips up—

Jonathan gasped as the floodgates burst, sucking in a dizzying wave of oxygen. Clary gasped, too, his ecstacy spilling over into her, overwhelming in the resonance between them. Jonathan arched and groaned against the sheets, pulling at the bedframe hard enough that it gave a tortured creak. His burst of pleasure lapsed into waves of hers; she pulled out and unhooked the harness, crashing down beside him to lay in the aftershocks. Jonathan curled up against her, feeling the press of her body on his back and her arm around his waist, the unsteady rhythm of their panting falling into unison.

Jonathan felt himself lulled into sleep, dipping down into the undercurrent of slumber. Clary stroked his hair, absently, reaching down to untie his hands and massage feeling back into his wrists. He sighed, utterly content, and let his bare skin ripple over the ruined dress.

“Already?” Clary teased, her voice thick and heavy with fatigue. She kissed the back of his neck, tucking a stray bit of her hair out of his face. Her body was warm, strong, like a heavy blanket. “And here I was just about to go for round two.”

Jonathan chuckled, re-arranging himself on the pillow. Everything felt soft and warm—the pillowcase, Clary’s shirt, her skin against his own. “For that, I’m afraid you’re going to have to rack up another life debt. Lucky for you, I happen to like being your damsel in distress.”

“Only if you always dress like one.” Clary’s hand teased his hip, down over his thigh. He could hear the smile in her voice. “I’m talking a staple wardrobe of crop tops and miniskirts, and lots of lip gloss. I can take you to Urban Outfitters tomorrow. Insta baddie looks only.”

“Only if you promise to get that strap-on that looks like it’s chrome-plated,” Jonathan mumbled back. His eyelids felt weighed down as if in quicksand, or if they sealed with glue. If Clary kept petting him like that, he wasn’t going to last another minute. “My knight in shining armour, and all that.”

Clary gave an abrupt laugh, her stomach moving against his back. She pressed her face into the pillow, still laughing, then tucked her hand back around his waist, pulling in close for a hug. “Now I know I said no hints about your present that I just ordered, but…I think you’re going to like your surprise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: feminization, mention of past abuse (physical, emotional...but canon typical), brief reflection on Jonathan's part that he doesn't necessarily know what he wants (but otherwise completely and enthusiastically consensual). 
> 
> Also if you wanna see Jonathan's dress it's based off the one [here](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/1231/3996/products/AM169_1024x1024.jpg?v=1505118263)!
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
